


Troublemaker

by MyseryLuvsCompany



Category: Bones (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bones being bones, Crossover, Gen, It needs to happen like air!, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyseryLuvsCompany/pseuds/MyseryLuvsCompany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No way. You can’t be here," Booth said, shaking his head now that he'd regained a semblance of himself. "This is a crime scene."</p><p>"Which is exactly why I am here," the man replied, stressing the 'why' in a very British accent. Out of towner. Figured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Troublemaker

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little one-shot that I did for the Sherlock Kink Meme on live journal. The request was for a Bones/Sherlock crossover and, well, I couldn't resist. It was daunting, oh oh so daunting to write but I like how it came out. Haha. 
> 
> Enjoy!

"You know Bones? Bubble and squeak? Leftovers? Come on, you can’t tell me you've never had bubble and squeak before?"

"I can and am telling you that Booth. And all bodies are leftovers. They're what's left of the human body when they die, ergo, leftovers," Brennan replied in that coolly cynical way of hers, and Booth ran a hand over his face. It was one of those days. Sometimes Bones got his jokes, even laughed when she didn’t really get it. And then there were days like these when she would barely smile for him. 

It had to be the skin. 

He knew how Bones hated dealing with skin, but, with Cam busy with a very important autopsy, she had left it to the rest of the squints to work on this case. Brennan and he had already been at the crime scene when Cam had delivered her verdict. 

"Hit me with your best shot then Bones," he said finally, grinning. Nope, no returning grin.

"If I shot you Booth you would be dead. I'm a very good shot," Brennan countered and Booth let it go. Wasn’t worth it. "Caucasian female, 18 to 25 years old. Victim was struck on the back of the head, could be cause of death, I won’t know more until I get her back to the lab." 

Booth meanwhile was jotting down everything his partner said. 

"Any clues to identity? Bag or ID or anything?" he asked and Brennan shook her head. There were clothes strewn around the body, which Booth meant to mean she had been sexually assaulted, but he kept that to himself. Didn’t need to get shot down in a ball of flame this early in the morning. 

The alley they were in was crowded, but the police were keeping the general public away from the entrance so they had privacy. 

"Well it’s obvious isn’t it?" a new voice suddenly said and Booth's hand went to his gun out of reflex as he swung around. There stood a man, taller than him, wearing a coat and a scarf. A coat and a scarf in this weather?! He had to be crazy.

"No way. You can’t be here," Booth said, shaking his head now that he'd regained a semblance of himself. "This is a crime scene."

"Which is exactly why I am here," the man replied, stressing the 'why' in a very British accent. Out of towner. Figured.

"How did you get in here?" Booth demanded and the man gave an almost shrug. 

"Those men you call police officers are inept in their jobs. So focused they are on the masses they fail to see the details. It wasn’t hard to slip past them once I saw their behavior," he replied seriously. Booth was set to reply when yet another voice joined the fray. 

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" All three of them turned to see another man, this one shorter, and stockier Booth noted, standing in the alley entrance, a police officer blocking his way as he waved an arm. "You can’t be in there."

"Nonsense John. This is a crime scene and these people clearly need my help," Sherlock said rather arrogantly Booth thought, before turning back to them and striding casually towards the body. 

Now Bones got involved. 

"You aren’t allowed to be in here. This is a crime scene and this body is evidence," she said, that protective streak of hers rearing up. Like a mother with her cubs, Booth likened. God forbid anyone should touch her body. And, skin or not, this was her body now.

"But it’s obvious isn’t it? Her male roommate hit her over the head when she returned home from work at a bar, raped her, then gathered the body and clothes and dumped them here in the hopes the garbage people wouldn’t notice. She had recently gotten out of an abusive relationship and trusted her roommate, most likely because he was an older man."

Both Brennan and Booth stood there, gob smacked for a moment. Booth out of....well, awe he supposed, and Brennan out of pure anger. 

"That is nothing but speculation and has no place here," Brennan recovered first, placing her hands on her hips. Uh oh. She was pissed now. "Now get out of here before I have you arrested for tampering with a crime scene."

"How did you figure that out?" Booth couldn’t help asking, which only seemed to piss Brennan off more. 

"Sherlock, don’t," the blonde man, who seemed to have found a way past the police officers, warned, but 'Sherlock' waved him off. 

"The man asked John," he said to his companion before he turned back to Booth. "Her clothes identify her as a barmaid, conservative though they are. Plain white shirt, black skirt, black runners. The stain in the shirt is beer, smell alone will tell you that, but there is a void around the hem. Suggests something was in the way of the beer and shirt when they met, shape indicates an apron she had tied around her waist, over her clothes. Nobody wears an apron in a bar but a barmaid. Then there's her shoes."

Before anyone could stop him, Sherlock had picked up one of said shoes and was tilting it this way and that. John shook his head and planted his hand in his face. He didn’t want to bail Sherlock out for tampering with evidence.

"Clean, respectable, but comfortable. If she had been attending a bar as a patron she'd have worn something flashier. Heels or the like. Runners suggest she would be on her feet a lot. Maybe she was dancing? Look at the soles. Walking pattern wear, no indications of pivoting or gyrating. She didn’t dance in these shoes, so worn to work it is then. One where people didn’t look at her feet often. Inside is well worn also, but there is discoloration on the laces everywhere but the knot. Means she tied them when they were new and never undid them. Slipped them on and off. Worked late then."

"Bruises on her shoulder," Sherlock continued, heading for the body when suddenly the woman was in front of him, barring his way. "Excuse me," he said, waiting for her to move. But move she did not. 

"You're stitching a tale based on assumptions and perceptions. I don’t know who you are, or what you're doing here, but your story has no place in the world of scientific investigation," Brennan said, her voice clinical, yet the anger was clear. And they were in what John would describe as one of Sherlock's ultimate, battle of the best, to the death staring matches. He'd learnt not to get into them. He always lost.

"You're spinning a tale Bones," Booth offered, somewhat numbly as his brain caught up. 

"What does that mean?"

"I don’t know what that means."

Came the two responses. The first from the man, Sherlock, the second from Brennan. Both then looked at him for a moment before they returned to their mutual stare down. John simply shook his head. He should have taken the earlier flight.

He and Sherlock had been finishing up a case, one of Mycroft's actually, here in Washington DC and they were all set to fly home at 6pm tonight. If he'd taken the 6am flight, they wouldn’t be here, having a staring match with a forensic investigator who looked like she was going to incinerate Sherlock where he stood. And an FBI agent who looked like he'd been sucker punched. 

"I really am sorry about this," John apologized to the man who, now that he had recovered, seemed to be caught between a grin and a frown. "We work with the London police and Sherlock here is a consulting detective who assists them on cases."

"I don’t see how when all he has to show are false assumptions and spotty conclusions," Brennan threw out, but, to his credit, Sherlock didn’t flinch. 

Nerves of steel then Booth thought. It took guts to stand up to Temperance Brennan when she was mad.

"If you were doing your job properly you too would see what I have said is true," Sherlock responded. "What must it be like to be so scientifically minded that you cannot see that which is right in front of you?"

It was rather funny to watch, both Booth and John had to think, though they didn’t know it. Sherlock was taller than Brennan and Booth but that wasn’t important, and their icy stares were perfectly matched. Almost. Brennan's held repressed fury, Sherlock's held boredom. That probably wasn’t helping Brennan's repressed fury at all. Sherlock's hands were in his coat pockets, and Brennan's were on her hips. 

It was like watching an unstoppable force meet an immovable object.

John wanted to chuckle. Look who's talking. Brennan though looked ready to take a swing, and that was Booth's cue to step in. 

"Okay," he said slowly, weasily inserting himself between the two. "How about we all just simmer down here for a moment? I'll have the nice police officers escort these two men out of the alley, and we can get back to our investigation right Bones?" he offered, though neither seemed to back down. 

"Do you often share nights filled with Thai food and beer?" Sherlock asked so suddenly that Booth almost fell over. How the hell had he known that? "I’m guessing you slept on the couch going by the rumpled shirt you're wearing. You really shouldn’t iron, you missed a spot," he added, glancing at Brennan as he said that. The stare down resumed, this time with Booth in the middle, before suddenly the man called Sherlock spun on his heel, the tail of his coat hitting Booth's leg as he did so, and stalked over to John.

"Come John. This is too easy for me and we have a flight to prepare for. It’s plain as day it was the roommate, but I have neither the inclination or the patience to stay here with these simple minded folk," Sherlock said before strutting away. John apologized one more time to Brennan and Booth before he took off with Sherlock.

"Fruit tarts," Brennan muttered, thoroughly annoyed as she turned back to the body. And blushing if Booth looked close enough. 

"Fruit cakes Bones. The term is fruit cakes."

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to follow my updates on tumblr, I have an account [here](http://myserys-company.tumblr.com/) solely for that. This won't be used for anything but my fanfictions if you're worried about spam! In addition, I also write prompts and answer questions occasionally over there.


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